


The Gift

by wandering_gypsy_feet



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, Doesn't matter, F/M, Kings Landing, Tyrion POV, mostly - Freeform, sansa x sandor - Freeform, sansan, what timeline is this in?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-08-24
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:42:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779868
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_gypsy_feet/pseuds/wandering_gypsy_feet
Summary: Tyrion wanted, desperately, to give his new wife Sansa Stark some reason to trust him. Some reason to smile again. So he gets her a gift, and finds that it's not the gift that makes her happy, but rather the giver.One-shot, Sansan, from Tyrion's POV. Post BotB, canon au where Sandor stayed.





	The Gift

**Author's Note:**

> What universe is this in? Doesn't matter. All I know is that this idea would not stop screaming at me until I posted it, so here we are. Trying to write Tyrion in George's style, and amusing myself at all of the ways the Imp is just wrong for our girl. 
> 
> Please enjoy!

“So, how is your new wife Tyrion?” Cersei asked, with faux sweetness dripping from every word. Tyrion focused on cutting the goose in front of him, schooling his face in the impassive expression he’d mastered during dinners with his father. “Is she settling in well?”

 

“I do think so,” he said lightly, reaching for the gravy. It was almost out of reach, near Mace Tyrell’s elbow, but he managed to hook a finger around it and drag it towards him. Cersei surely had engineered this little dinner party as a way to embarrass him further after the wedding feast, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of seeing just how unhappy a union his and Sansa’s was.

 

“She spends a lot of time with my granddaughters, to be sure,” Olenna remarked, her eyes not on Tyrion but on Cersei. It made him wonder if his sweet sister was aware of the intelligence that burned in the wizened old crone’s eyes.

 

“I’m sure they keep her out of trouble,” Tyrion said graciously, before taking a bite of his goose. “This is splendid, Mace, have you tried it?”

 

“Indeed,” Mace remarked and Tyrion observed that Mace had tried half the goose already.

 

“Newlyweds should want to be together,” Olenna was still remarking strongly, and Cersei, usually dour in the presence of the Queen of Thorns, looked delighted. “Why, when I married my Luthor, we could hardly be apart. You’ll see when Joffrey and my dear Margaery are married, they won’t leave each other’s sides.”

 

“Well,” Cersei began, the mention of her son’s upcoming marriage seemingly spoiling her fun in mocking Tyrion. “Joffrey will be busy running a kingdom.”

 

“And I am glad of that,” Tyrion mocked, raising his wine glass. Cersei joined him in the toast, scowling.

 

“Perhaps your interests just don’t overlap,” Olenna kept talking, and Tyrion wished desperately that he could shove one of the glistening apples into her mouth.

 

“I don’t think Sansa has any interest in the business of lordship,” Tyrion commented, trying desperately to keep his calm, “and I reasonably cannot be asked to take up embroidery.”

 

“Wouldn’t that be a sight?” Some of Cersei’s vigor was returning.

 

“I’ve found it is easier to shower a woman with gifts,” Mace declared and Tyrion turned to him, very interested in getting the large man’s opinion on wooing a woman. “When I am forced to neglect my lady wife with the matters of the realm, I often commission the best seamstress in the city to create her the finest gown. I am always forgiven upon it’s presentation.”

 

“Young Sansa may need a new gown soon,” Cersei muttered, taking a sip of her wine. “It seems she’s outgrown everything she owns, poor ragged thing.”

 

“Mace, do tell me the name of your seamstress,” Tyrion ordered suddenly, unable to take Cersei’s barbs any longer. He wondered just how many Sansa fielded in a day with her. It was giving him a headache, and he wished to be done with her. “That may just be the thing to help Sansa settle into life as a married woman.”

 

“To be sure, you’re not going to spend money on that little traitor?” Cersei looked at him in disbelief, her torment suddenly gone wrong. “The royal treasury—”

 

“Is quite separate from mine pockets, sweet sister,” Tyrion said sharply, finishing his wine. “I can afford to clothe my wife. Now Mace, the name?”

 

“Oh, yes,” Mace stammered, red in the face, clearly unable to understand the jabs being traded. When Tyrion had the name and address of the seamstress, he said his goodnights and left his goose to cool on the table. Cersei dismissed him with scorn, and he trembled with rage all the way back to his bedchambers. He wasn’t surprised to see, when he entered, that Sansa was already there. She was sitting by the window, reading from a book, and looked up in surprise.

 

“No need for that,” Tyrion said tiredly, when she rose to curtsey. “I think we’ve both had a rather long day, yes? Perhaps bed will be in order.”

 

“If my lord wishes,” Sansa murmured softly, ducking her head, and Tyrion took a long moment to observe her. It did seem that her dress did not quite sweep the floor in a customary fashion, and the bodice and shoulders seemed strained. If the elbows were worn and fraying, Sansa’s grace didn’t show it. He vowed, as he climbed into a separate bed from his little wife, that tomorrow he would go see about that dress. Sansa liked bright, shiny things. This would be good for them both.

 

When he rose, well before the dawn as was his custom, Sansa was still asleep. Her copper hair pooled around her, and in sleep her sweet face seemed content, if only because in her dreams she was free. He gave her a little smile. He could be a good husband to her, if only she would let him. Then he went off, to fetch Bronn and a horse. He had a seamstress to see.

 

No one dared say anything to him during the journey, except, of course, his mouthy sellsword. Upon seeing they weren’t bound for taverns, whorehouses, or gambling dens, Bronn swung around, looking back at him with a grin that made Tyrion want to sigh.

 

“And where might the little lord be headed?” He questioned, and Tyrion turned down a side road, towards a respectable two story wood building with a needle and bolt of silk painted above the door. “Need a new skirt then?”

 

“Not for myself, but my lady wife,” Tyrion told him, climbing down from his horse and handing the reigns to the boy he’d taken from the stables.

 

“Maybe they’ll make you something from the scraps,” Bronn suggested and Tyrion wished for wine.

 

The woman inside, a widow with nimble hands, seemed surprised and delighted to have him. She fussed and fretted over every little thing, asking Tyrion his opinions on the color of the silk he wished the gown to be made from, and the gems that were to be sewn into it. She asked him about the cut and style, and Sansa’s measurements. Tyrion did his best, deferring to her wisdom wherever he could, and amusing himself thinking of Mace designing a gown.

 

In the end, he thought he did well enough. He knew better than to ask Sansa to wear Lannister colors, so he picked a rather neutral salmon shade, with blue gems the color of Sansa’s eyes to be woven in. The seamstress promised to have it done before anything else in her shop, and he left with the feeling of success. Not even Bronn’s crass comments the entire way back to the Red Keep could dampen his mood.

 

He would crack Sansa Stark’s icy resolve.

 

The seamstress was good on her word, and when he went back not quite a fortnight later, the gown was ready. Tyrion was delighted; it was smooth and unblemished, the gems sparkling and the fabric bright. He could about imagine the look of happiness on Sansa’s face when he presented it to her, and he tipped the woman handsomely for her efforts. He brought it up to their rooms, setting it on the bed.

 

He arranged for them to dine in their rooms, and when Sansa entered, the food was spread across the table while he waited beside her chair. Sansa’s gaze swept the room quickly, and for half a season, he glimpsed confusion on her face before she hastily schooled it back into blankness. He hated that mask of hers, hated that he couldn’t remove it. Nothing he did, kind or cruel, could break her. Cersei was to thank for that, he was sure.

 

“Thank you for this, my lord,” Sansa said quietly, as Tyrion pulled the chair out.

 

“i thought it might be a welcome relief to sharing meals with the Tyrell girls,” he remarked, trying to sound breezy. Sansa sat, careful to never touch him. Tyrion went across from her, clambering with ill grace into his chair. Supper was an uneasy affair, the conversation never straying off polite topics. It infuriated Tyrion, the way that Sansa wouldn’t meet his eyes, or even so much as utter much beyond a _‘yes, my lord’_ or _‘no, my lord’_ or worst of all, _‘as you please, my lord.’_

 

“Thank you, my lord,” she repeated, when the last of their dishes were cleared away and they were alone again.

 

“That is but the first surprise,” Tyrion promised, and that made Sansa look up. Naked fear flashed across her face, and he supposed he had Cersei to thank for that as well.

 

“I don’t — this was quite enough —”

 

“I wanted to get you something nice, something that befits your status as my wife now,” he explained, going to where the box was waiting on the bed. Sansa followed, at a safe distance. She eyed the box as though it would harm, even when Tyrion beckoned for her to come closer. “This is for you, at the recommendation of Mace Tyrell himself.”

 

“It is lovely,” Sansa said, with genuine awe, when she opened the box. He smiled, delighted to think that perhaps he’d done it. He’d gotten through to her. “I — Thank you.”

 

“A delayed wedding gift,” Tyrion quipped and in an instant, Sansa’s shoulders went rigid once more, and the dress slid from her fingers back into the box. The color drained from her face, and he was once again left with the pale doll that seemed human, but was nothing more than a pretty piece he could only look at and not touch. Though he was sure she remembered the last dress gifted to her had been the one she'd married him in, and that could not bring happy memories with it. 

 

“Thank you my lord,” she said, as though her lips were numb. Tyrion tried to recover, to explain to her that it had been nothing more than a joke, but little good it did him. Sansa would not go near the box again, nor say another word to him beyond one syllable, so in the end he summoned a servant to put the dress among the others in her closet and ordered himself a bucket of wine to drown the fact that he was married to a girl who despised him despite everything he did.

 

The next day Joffrey had declared that the whole of court was to accompany him in reviewing the guards, Tyrion and Sansa included. Tyrion was with the lords when the ladies of the court swept into the yard following Cersei, and his heart clenched to see Sansa there, dressed in the same purple gown she’d been in not a week before, one that clung too tightly on her hips and breasts.

 

Tyrion, already hot in the sun as Joffrey cantered past, pretending to order troops to battle and narrating his own unfounded exploits, grew more furious. She was ungrateful. He’d gotten her a new gown, and she couldn’t even honor him by wearing it. How many lords and ladies had heard him speak of the creation? How many had he boasted to? Were they now watching him, mocking him behind his back?

 

Sansa refused him everything. She refused her duties as a wife, as a lady, as a simple human. She shared not her joy, nor her sorrows with him. They spoke not of memories or hopes or wishes, and not of the future. She hoarded her smiles, her tears, her laughter, her woes. She would not even give him the satisfaction of accepting his gift. Selfish little girl.

 

She stood silently amongst the ladies, applauding Joffrey when needed like the rest, but never once did her face betray any thought that crossed her mind. She kept those to herself, like she did her words and feelings. He received nothing from her, though it was clear he was willing to give her everything, if simply she would let him.

 

After the mockery of Joffrey was done, the whole court hastened back into the cool and shade of the Red Keep, and Tyrion was lost in the shuffle. He was in a sour mood, and in no rush to be whispered about, so he turned down a lesser used corridor, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw that it was not as empty as he had thought; the hulking form of the Hound loomed large over none other than his wife.

 

He almost lurched forward to call out to Sansa, but something stopped him. Perhaps it was the way to Sansa was not cowering for once, but straight backed and looking up in the ruined face of Clegane. Perhaps it was that the great sword was sheathed across the broad back of the warrior. Or perhaps it was because the man himself was holding up a single, scraggly flower, offering it to Sansa.

 

Tyrion was too far off to hear their words, but he could see their faces. He could see the smile Sansa gave Sandor, one that was so bright and innocent it nearly stopped his heart. He saw that she took the flower and bent down to smell it, uncaring if dirt still clung to it’s roots. He saw her press it to her heart, and he saw the happiness in her. The sort of joy he had never once brought her.

 

He turned away before he saw anymore, stumbling back out into the wider hallway. His head spinning, he didn’t care if his route brought him tumbling down from the walls. None of it made any sense at all. Sansa was his wife, his lady wife, and not even a new gown, one any lady in the court would be envious of, made her smile as much as a weed presented to her from Sandor Clegane.

 

He needed wine.

**Author's Note:**

> JUST ONCE I WANT SANDOR TO GIVE SANSA A FLOWER OKAY JUST ONCE
> 
> seriously this is just a little thing, but i hope you all enjoy it and leave me a review on the way out - i am thinking of doing a sansan story in this vein (can there ever be too many botb fics?) so if you like it, gimme a shout!


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